A Low-Grade Fever
by MaddieMooreland
Summary: Dean has been feeling a little rundown lately, but he doesn't want to worry Sam, who hasn't been doing well himself. When his low grade fever climbs higher, he can't hide it anymore. sick!Dean worried!Sam. (Finished! Thanks for the enthusiasm- it means the world to me.)
1. Chapter 1

**The boys are not mine!**

Here are the things Dean had: an arsenal, ten fake IDs, three pairs of shoes, five ties, two suits, a toothbrush, a shaving kit, two pairs of jeans, the car, an extensive first aid kit, the reflexes of a fighter pilot, two bottles of whiskey, a hero complex fed into by a startling amount of self loathing, eleven and a half pairs of socks, a laptop, a cell phone, about five or six thousand in small bills he'd won in bars, an awesome tape collection, a half dozen well-worn shirts, two jackets, an almost encyclopedic knowledge of movies-that-had-been-shown-on-cable, two whiskey glasses stolen from a dive bar in Baxter Springs, a passing familiarity with Latin, a hoodie, a whole wallet full of fake credit cards, three photographs, a little brother no one else would call "little" and what was maybe not a low grade fever anymore.

Sam wouldn't have been surprised by all of these, except for the latter.

Here are things Dean didn't have: a high school diploma, a winter coat that was heavy enough, a mattress, a permanent address, particularly healthy coping mechanisms, health insurance, and the desire to give his brooding little brother something else to worry about.

* * *

Dean had been feeling increasingly like crap for about thirty-six hours. At first, he thought he was just getting a little run down. He and Sam had been working at a breakneck pace without any real down time for at least a month, maybe longer. Dean liked to work hard—it kept him from having to think too much. But lately Sam had been flinging himself into it like he had nothing left to lose, which was one of those things Dean was happy not to have had too much time lately to think about.

So at first, Dean just thought that maybe he was tired. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and it was getting a little bit harder to bounce back from the knocks he was taking, particularly on a diet of whiskey, cheap fast food and way too little sleep. So if he woke up feeling a little under the weather, well that seemed pretty par for the course to Dean. And the last case they had worked had been rough—a vampire nest that had been particularly difficult to put down, all the more so because Dean wasn't quite as quick as usual.

Dean had thought for sure that Sam would suggest a little R&R. Sam had taken some good knocks too, but he'd fired up his laptop the moment they got back to the room, looking for another case. If Sam needed them to work that badly, Dean wasn't about to force him to stop. Even at 80%, Dean was still a better hunter than most.

But that was yesterday. They had only been on the road for an hour of the seven or eight they planned to put in today, but Dean felt like he'd been driving for ten. He had a major headache, and the air in the car felt very hot and stuffy. He glanced over at Sam, who was reading a book on skinwalkers.

Dean signaled to get off at the exit. He needed some caffeine, but mostly he needed some fresh air.

Sam looked up, surprised. "We are stopping?" They'd gotten gas before they'd gotten on the road, and Dean usually hated to stop before lunch.

Dean put on a cheerful voice. "That coffee didn't quite take." Which was true, actually. He pulled into the cleaner looking of the two gas stations. "Want anything?"

Sam didn't glance away from his book. "I'm good, thanks." Dean slid out the car, a little surprised at how stiff his muscles had gotten on the short drive. The cool March air felt nice, and Dean felt a little better as he pushed open the door.

The nineteen-year-old working the counter was the only person in the gas station. It was still morning, but the coffee looked pretty old. Dean sighed and poured himself a cup anyway, before walking towards the pharmacy section. He had plenty of pain killers in the car, but going into the back for them would have tipped Sam off, so he grabbed a packet of Advil for his headache. He also grabbed some caffeine pills—he didn't think the coffee was going to be enough. Plus caffeine was good for headaches, wasn't it?

He took everything to the counter, where the kid didn't even bother to look up from his phone as he rang Dean up. Dean handed him a twenty and then opened both the caffeine pills and the Advil and washed them down with the stale coffee. It tasted even worse than he had expected.

"Hey kid, can you toss this for me?" The kid rolled his eyes, but held out his hand for the empty pill packets. Dean didn't want Sam to find them later and give him a hard time about it. Not that Sam had been focusing on anything outside of the hunts lately, but old habits die hard and Sam didn't like when Dean took caffeine pills. He'd have been really upset if he knew that was the least of all the things Dean sometimes took to give himself an edge on the job, but Dean hid that from him, too.

Sam was still deeply engrossed in his book as Dean walked back out towards the car. The air cut through his flannel shirt in a way it hadn't before, and Dean shivered as he got in.

"Good coffee?" Sam teased.

"You know it." Dean took another sip. It didn't taste any better the second time, but at least it was warm. He started the car and turned the heat up before pulling back onto the interstate. Sam turned the page, and didn't notice Dean shiver.

* * *

But Sam couldn't help but notice that Dean kept fiddling with the heat and opening and closing his window, no matter how subtle Dean tried to be about it.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Dean was pretty sure at this point that he was not okay. He didn't look away from the road. "I'll be better when I get around this asshole who won't let me pass." Dean could feel Sam giving him a Look.

"Because you have put on and taken off that hoodie like three times in the last two hours and you keep screwing with the heat." Sam was still starring at Dean, evaluating him.

Dean wasn't quite ready to admit anything. He was still holding out hope that he could just power through it. Maybe something to eat would make him feel better. The Advil had made a little dent in his headache, and the caffeine pills were keeping him awake enough to drive.

"I'm hungry. Let's stop for lunch soon."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together, but he decided to let it go, for now. "Sounds good." He started a new chapter. "Not burritos."

* * *

The diner Dean had chosen was nearly full, which was usually a good indication that the food would be better than usual. Ordinarily Dean would have been thrilled with his good fortune, but he couldn't really find anything on the greasy plastic menu that he really wanted. Even the bacon cheeseburger didn't particularly appeal to him.

"I'll have the whole wheat turkey wrap and a side salad," Sam ordered, handing his menu back. He looked at Dean, waiting for the customary snark on his order, but Dean wasn't up to it.

"And I'll have a cup of the tomato soup and half a grilled cheese on white." Dean didn't want that anymore than he wanted the burger, but he was pretty sure he could make himself eat that much. The waitress wrote down his order and walked away, promising to return in a minute with waters.

"Seriously?" Sam was starring at him again.

"What? I don't like wheat bread."

"Are you kidding? You told me you were hungry like twenty minutes ago, and we sit down and not only do you not order a bacon cheeseburger, you order what on an ordinary day you would consider an appetizer. What the hell?" The waitress returned with their waters and gave Sam a disapproving look at his use of "hell."

Dean was starting to get hot again, and grabbed his water gratefully. "I'm just a little tired, I guess."

Suddenly Sam saw what he had ignored before. Dean looked like hell. There were deep circles under Dean's eyes, and they were glassy. Dean looked a lot worse than tired.

Sam reached across the table to feel his brother's forehead, just as the waitress dropped off their food. She harrumph at the sight and Sam shot her a glare that would melt glass. _Small town bigot._ Ordinarily Dean would have batted his little brother's hand away, but he was feeling miserable enough that he allowed it.

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam pulled his hand away, shocked. "You are burning up. Why didn't you tell me?"

"It is just a fever. We were just driving. I haven't felt so hot in a few days, but I can push through it."

"A few days? Seriously, dude? " Sam suddenly felt both pissed and incredibly guilty for not noticing until now. "Why the hell didn't you say something?"

"Why? It wasn't affecting my work!" Dean looked down and pushed his soup around his cup.

"You think I wanted to know because of _work_?" Sam was incredulous. Dean's inability to understand the need to take care of himself—let alone Sam's need to take care of Dean—was infuriating.

"I'll be fine. Look you can drive this afternoon and I'll sleep." Dean took a bite of the sandwich he didn't want, to prove his point.

"We are not going to stay on the road. We are getting a room. You need to rest." Sam stood up and threw some bills on the table, wrapping his uneaten sandwich up in its wax paper and putting it in his pocket.

It was a sign of just how bad Dean was feeling that he didn't protest. Instead he just handed Sam the keys and followed him out the door.

* * *

The motel Sam had picked—well, the first one he had come to—was a little nicer than most. Dean collapsed gratefully on his bed, kicking off his boots and jeans. He was still hot.

Sam was searching through the first aid kit for a thermometer, which he was pretty sure he hadn't seen since Utah. Damn it. Well, he'd been planning on going to the drugstore anyway.

"Did you take anything yet?" Sam hadn't seen Dean go in the kit, but if he could hide a frigging fever from Sam for days, he could certainly have hidden that. Sam mentally kicked himself again. He couldn't believe he'd been so dense. In Sam's place, Dean would have picked up almost instantly. Of course Sam wouldn't have hidden it from Dean for _days_, either.

"Some Advil at the gas station this morning. And some caffeine pills."

"You took freaking caffeine—" _No._ Sam swallowed his irritation. At least Dean was being honest. "Okay. Take some more Tylenol now." Sam shook a few pills out of the bottle and then placed it on the bedside table where he could find it again. He handed them to Dean and walked towards the bathroom to get him a glass of water, which he set next to the bottle. Dean took the pills.

"Thanks."

It was already chilly in the room, but Dean was sweating under the thin sheet. Sam went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth. Dean though about protesting, but it felt so good, so cool, on his forehead that he allowed it. He closed his eyes. He shouldn't have been able to sleep with all that caffeine, but he felt like he hadn't had any shuteye in years.

With Dean asleep, Sam wasn't sure what to do. He needed to get a thermometer, they were going to run out of Tylenol quickly, and there were a few other supplies he wanted to stock up on, too.

He didn't want to leave Dean alone. But there was no way around it. So he wrote a note _Went to drugstore, be back in 20_, sat Dean's phone within his reach and left.

* * *

Dean was going to die. He was on a plane and there was a big hole in the side. Cold air was rushing through the cabin and everyone was screaming. Through his window, he could see the ocean rushing up to meet him. Everyone on the plane was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A woman across the isle was holding a baby. Both were sobbing. But where was Sammy? Dean struggled to get out of his seat to look for him. Where was Sammy? Dean called his brothers name again and again. Dean was going to die, and he couldn't find Sam.

* * *

Sam knew something was wrong the moment he walked back into the hotel room. It had taken longer than he'd thought—it turned out the nearest drugstore was on the other side of town and there had been an incompetent cashier and a line— he'd been frantic to get back the entire time, nearly abandoning his basket twice before realizing that if he left now he'd only have to leave Dean again later. The only thing worse than leaving him once would be leaving him twice.

Dean had managed to pull the comforter around himself, but he was shivering enough when Sam walked in that Sam could make it out from across the room. He was also very clearly having a nightmare, or delirious, or some combination of the two.

"Dean!" Sam dropped his bags at the door and rushed to his brother. "It's okay. Your okay." Sam pulled the blankets off the other bed and heaped them onto Dean. He touched Dean's forehead, which felt warmer than it had at the dinner. Dean's eyes shot open.

"Sam! I couldn't find you!"

Sam realized Dean was talking about whatever fever dream had been playing in his's head, but it still made Sam feel awful for leaving. Dean was so much better at this. "It is okay now, you found me." Dean visibly relaxed. Sam crossed to the closet for the spare blanket and added it to the pile.

"I thought-" Dean shook his head, bringing this world back into focus.

Sam cut him off. He didn't need Dean to tell him whatever dark thing his brain had conjured up.

"I was at the store. I'm sorry. I'm back now. Are you still cold?" Dean shook his head. Not so much cold as just totally miserable.

Sam retrieved the bags from the floor, and pawed through them finally finding the thermometer. He handed it to Dean. "Let's see what the damage is, huh?" Neither of them really wanted to know. They didn't go to doctors for something like this—they didn't even always go for bullets-but silently, Sam decided if it was over 103.8 he'd force Dean. The thermometer beeped.

103.7. _Frigging perfect._ Okay, no doctor, not yet, but they had to bring this fever down. Dean still had few hours to go before he should take another pill, so Sam was going to have to get more creative.

Sam was worried Dean was going to get dehydrated too.

He pulled a Gatorade out of the drugstore bag, thankful he'd bought the already cold ones out of the case, instead of the six pack. He handed it to Dean.

"Drink this." Dean started to protest—he just wanted to go back to sleep-but must have seen the concern in his brother eyes because he shut up and took the bottle. _Now what?_ Keeping busy made Sam worry less. Ice. Sam could use some ice. He grabbed the ice bucket. "I'll be right back Dean, okay?"

"I'm not a freaking infant," Dean grumbled, sinking into his pillows. Sam must have run to the ice machine and back, because he was back in less than two minutes. Sam noted that Dean had drunk half the bottle of Gatorade. Good. Sam dumped the ice into the plastic bag that had the rest of the juice and Gatorade in it. Makeshift refrigerator.

Dean had pushed most of the blankets aside.

"Do you want to take a shower? Or a bath?" Sam asked.

'What, I don't smell like a rose to you?" Dean cracked a weak smile. Sam could see it took effort.

"I mean to bring down your temperature. It could help."

"Sure." Dean did not want to do anything but sleep for the next five to eight years, but he'd take a shower if it made Sam feel better.

Dean pushed out of bed and was surprised at how dizzy he felt. He'd been walking and talking just fine a few hours ago. Sam rushed to his side to help.

"I'm fine, Sammy. Just gimmie a second." Sam hovered, but Dean made it across the room to the bathroom by himself. Sam turned on the water.

"Bath or shower?"

Dean knew bath was probably the right answer given how dizzy getting out of bed had made him, but he had more pride than that. Plus making a show of standing would probably make Sam feel better. "Shower."

Sam turned the water on, testing it until it was exactly as he wanted, while Dean leaned heavily against the doorframe.

Sam turned to Dean, who was still wearing his t-shirt and his boxers. "Do you—"

"No!" Dean cut Sam off. "Get out, Sam." Sam started to protest. " I mean it. I'll keep the door open, you can sit right outside. Okay?"

"Fine." It was totally the wrong call—Dean could pass out and hit his head—but it was clear to Sam that this was a point Dean considered nonnegotiable so long as he was conscious and had use of his own limbs. Sam turned around and sat down on the floor, listening as Dean laboriously undressed and got under the water.

Dean leaned against the cool titles, and felt better—less fuzzy-as the lukewarm water ran across his hot skin. Sam had nailed it on that particular point. Eventually he turned off the water—he wasn't sure if he'd been in the shower for ten minutes or an hour—and began slowly drying off with the towels.

Sam still had his back to the door but was sitting up straight, listening for even the slightest hint that something was wrong—that something was _more_ wrong- as though his over attentiveness now could make up for his lack of it the last few weeks.

Sam was beating himself up for not noticing before, and Dean realized he'd been a jerk not to level with him. He hadn't saved Sam any worrying after all. He'd probably compounded it. Dean was exhausted again. He wrapped the towel around his waist and sat on the toilet lid. "Hey, do you mind getting me something clean to wear?" he called.

Sam scrambled to his feet. "No problem!" Dean's duffle was a mess—usually he folded everything but he hadn't felt up to it the last few days . After some digging, Sam found a clean shirt and boxers and brought them back to Dean. Dean stood up, slowly this time, and shrugged into his shirt and slipped the boxers on under his towel. The effort cost him something, but he felt a tiny bit more human than he had before. Sam was hovering anyway, so Dean slug an arm around him and allowed Sam to help him back to bed.

"Thanks, Sammy. You were right, I feel a little better." Sam smiled, relived, and grabbed the water glass to refill it. Dean grabbed his wrist. He was going to be asleep in a minute, but he wanted to say this first. " Look, I'm sorry for hiding this from you. I should have told you okay?" Dean's eyes were closing. "I just didn't want to worry you. I… never…." And then he was asleep.

Sam brushed his fingers across his brothers forehead. Still hot—there was no doubt Dean still had a fever—but not quite as alarming as it had been. It was nice that Dean had apologized—he didn't do that a lot—but Sam still wouldn't forgive himself for not noticing that Dean was sick until he was this sick.

And Sam felt responsible for Dean getting rundown enough to get sick, too.

Sam had been in a dark place lately, a really dark place, and work was the only thing that distracted him enough to keep him from it. Dean could drink his problems away, but Sam, well, if he didn't keep busy enough Sam ruminated. So he'd been working hard, working _both_ of them hard, he corrected, to keep himself from thinking. He'd been so successful at it, he'd even missed what was right in front of his face. Dean was his brother, his partner, his best friend, and he'd let him down. Again. He pushed that thought aside.

But this, this he could correct, and that helped. Sam could take care of Dean. He could make sure he was hydrated and not too hot and not too cool, and Dean would get better. Sam wouldn't make this mistake again. Dean wasn't the only one who had a brother he wanted to take care of.


	2. Chapter 2

**You guys are being so sweet, I thought I'd give you another chapter! One more coming after this, probably.**

* * *

Sam was well trained. He was awake and on his feet with his knife in his hand before his brain had even processed what he had heard. Before he even understood that he must have fallen asleep in that terrible chair while trying to concentrate on his book.

It was dark.

The door was closed.

It didn't feel like danger.

_Thump_. He had heard a thump. Dean! Sam's knife was back in his jeans as quickly as it had appeared. He was across the room in a second.

"Dean!?" His brother was on the floor beside his bed.

"M'okay, Sammy. Just fell down. … Dizzy." Dean had his knees pulled into his chest and his forehead pressed against them.

"Jesus, Dean. Why are you out of bed at all? I'd have helped you, you know." Sammy knelt down next to his brother, his knees and back cracking. It had not been a good chair to fall asleep in.

"Had to pee. " Which was true, but mostly Dean been dreaming about Sam dying, again. "Didn't want to wake you." _Of course not_, Sam thought. _God forbid you let anyone help you. _

"Yes, because waking up to the sound of you falling is so much more preferable." Sam shot back, but without any anger. Anger he was reserving to direct at himself, at the moment. He put a hand on his brother's back. His skin was still too hot to the touch. But first things first. "Wanna try to stand up again?"

Dean did not want to try to stand up ever again. The room had only just stopped spinning. Still he raised his head and held out his hands so his brother could help pull him up. His head swam again, but Sam had a grip on his arm and his legs held. Sam looked worried.

Dean hated to see Sam worried. He shook Sam off.

"I'm okay now, thanks." It couldn't be more than five or six steps to the bathroom. It wasn't insurmountable, and Dean knew from experience that he could make his body withstand almost anything, at least for a while. He stumbled to the bathroom and closed the door. Before Sam could object he called through it "I'm sorry for scaring you earlier, Sammy. Really." Dean peed and washed his hands. He figured he had about two more minute of remaining vertical under his own steam left, so he decided to make the most of it.

'Dean-" Sam began.

Dean opened the door so Sam could see him and grabbed his toothbrush to brush his teeth. You didn't have to worry that much about someone who brushed their own teeth—who _cared_ about brushing their own teeth—right? Dean leaned heavily on the sink, but Sam couldn't see that from where he stood. The tooth brushing show did seem to relax Sam, a little bit. But Dean's vision was starting to gray, so he spat in the sink and quickly stumbled back to his bed. _Oh bed. Thank god. _He was totally spent from his tooth brushing bravado, but he considered it a good use of energy.

Sam crossed the room to go get the thermometer. Dean would have liked to avoid that—he might have been a little better, but he could tell it wasn't all that significant—but he couldn't come up with a good reason. He'd go with charm.

"The turkey ain't done yet, little brother."

"You know I'm still going to check, right? Even if I have to hold you down and force you?" Sam handed Dean the thermometer. _102_. _I'd be happy for 102._

103.2.

Sam frowned at the thermometer. He thought it would be lower. Well, it was time for meds anyway. _Maybe Advil this time?_ "How about switching it up?" Dean didn't care—he'd take anything. Sam dug into the kit till he found some Advil, refilled Dean's glass and handed it to him. Dean swallowed them easily.

"Finish that glass for me, okay?" Sam asked. Dean made a face, but complied.

Finished, Dean collapsed back onto his pillow. "What time is it?" Dean asked. Sam glanced at the clock.

"4 am." Sam wondered when he had fallen asleep, how much sleep he'd managed to log. His body ached for a mattress, but he wanted to be on high alert in case Dean attempted another ill-advised midnight walk.

Dean's eyes were getting heavy. "You should get some sleep too. That book must be incredibly boring."

"It isn't," Sam lied. "But I will. Soon." Another lie. The second Dean fell asleep he planned to make some very strong crappy motel room coffee. Lying came easily to Sam, but if Dean hadn't wasted quite so much effort on dental hygiene, he'd have caught the sound of it in Sam's voice.

Sam didn't totally understand why Dean kept so much from him, especially stupid stuff like a fever—Sam would never completely understand the pressure Dean put on himself and the particular way he'd interpreted "take care of your little brother"—but Sam's own motivations were clearer, both to Sam and to Dean.

Dean knew Sam better than anyone—better even than Jess had, though Sam wouldn't have admitted it at the time—and he had a knack for sussing out Sam's lies. Which is why Sam hadn't volunteered a reason he'd been acting strangely, and also why Dean hadn't asked. Sam didn't want to lie, and Dean didn't want to be lied to.

Because the truth—well the truth was stupid and weak and pathetic. And the last thing Sam wanted was for his brother to see him that way. Sam wanted to be seen as an equal, a partner. But Dean didn't even see him as equal enough to shoulder the burden of something as trivial, compared to their usual problems, anyway, as a fever? A fever Sam _hadn't even noticed—_Sam's chest tightened with guilt- well, that was exactly the opposite of what Sam wanted.

Dean slipped off into another round of nightmares, and Sam got up to brew himself the first of several cups coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

Here are some if the things Sam was worried about: angels, demons, the state of the world, all the people he'd saved, all the people he hadn't saved, clowns, the day he'd have to burry his brother, what they would do if they ever lost the demon blade, how freaking screwed up he was, how much Dean was drinking, how much he was drinking, and newly, Dean's fever.

But mostly, he worried about not living up to the man his brother wanted him to be.

Lately a constant screaming loop of his failures had been playing in his head. Bad calls he'd made, lies he had told- every single time he'd let Dean down. And now he could add not noticing Dean getting sick to the list of a hundred more personal failures.

Sometimes- most of the time, even- Sam could stop himself from spiraling. But every once in a while he couldn't find any toe holds and the only way to pull himself out the darkness was to keep busy enough to stop thinking. Hunt some things. Save some people. Rebuild a little bit. But right now he was white knuckling it, and being trapped in this room with mostly just his thoughts for company was not making it any easier. It would have been easier if he could drink it away, like Dean could. He'd tried.

It would have helped to talk with Dean, to level with him a little bit about all the crap that was going on in his head, but Sam would never do that. Sam wanted Dean to see him as strong, capable—he knew that on some level he and Dean were both playing a little psychologically wounded, but it was one thing for that to be unspoken and a completely other thing to explain to his brother just exactly what a head case he was.

Plus he didn't want to put that on Dean. Wouldn't put that on Dean. Not ever. Dean didn't need yet _another _reason to worry about Sam.

* * *

Sam was bleeding. Sam was spilling his life out onto the floor and Dean was handcuffed to a steam pipe across the room. He couldn't get loose. There was something else in the room, something Dean couldn't see. Something dark, that had gotten Sam. Dean pulled at his restraints, but the pipe held.

Dean watched the dark puddle spread across the floor. He pulled and screamed Sam's name, as sweat and tears slipped down his face.

Sam didn't move. It was over. Everything was over. Dean had failed.

"Dean!"

_Sam?_ Sam was dying. Dead.

"Hey. It's okay." Dean felt a hand grab his shoulder.

His real shoulder. Instinct took over and Dean reached for his gun, which wasn't under the pillow where it should have been.

"Woah!"

_Sam?_

Sam was standing over Dean, looking worried. He wasn't bleeding, thank god.

Late morning daylight was filtering through cheap plastic motel blinds. _Motel. A dream_. Dean relaxed.

"You alright?" Sam asked, too much concern seeping into his voice. Dean must have been shouting in his sleep. Fantastic.

"Fine. Sorry." Sam's eyes narrowed. He wasn't going to let Dean off the hook so easily. Dean took stock. His pulse was still racing from the dream, he was soaked in sweat, and his head was pounding. _Gotta give the kid something._ "I still feel like crap. Do you have any more Gatorade?" He'd rather have Sam worry about his physical health than his mental health any day. And it isn't like the nightmares were a new development, they were just worse when he was sick.

"You know it." Sam looked incredibly grateful to have something to do. He bounded towards the kitchen, pulling a still sort of cold Gatorade out of the plastic bag filled with melted ice. Dean pulled himself together. Sam returned with the Gatorade- red, Dean's favorite- and sat on the edge of the bed.

Dean reached for the Advil and dumped out a small handful, chasing them down with the Gatorade. He was ready to get back on his feet.

"Thanks. Red. It's good." Sam smiled a little. He looked almost as exhausted as Dean felt—the dark circles that had been under Sam's eyes for weeks were even worse, and he was still in the same clothes he'd worn yesterday. "Did you get any sleep?" Dean hoped he hadn't kept him up. He was usually good at keeping the nightmares in his head, but the fever seemed to have weakened his control.

"I got some." Which wasn't a lie, if you counted the hour or two he'd gotten in the chair. Sam fidgeted. Mostly he'd spent the time tormenting himself.

Sam wanted to ask about what Dean had been dreaming about, and he wanted to take Dean's temperature again, but he didn't do either.

"Do you need anything? Are you hungry?"

Dean was most decidedly not hungry, but Sam was clearly climbing the walls. He glanced at the clock. "Starved. Take Baby and get me some all day pancakes?" Sam looked hesitant to leave. "Seriously. Get out of here before I starve to death."

Sam's smile was a little brighter this time. If Dean was hungry, he must be feeling better. "Coming right up! Be back in thirty." Sam scooped the keys and the phone off the dresser.

Dean counted slowly to twenty to make sure Sam was really gone before he decided to move. Slowly, this time. He'd learned his lesson.

By the time Sam had returned, Dean had showered. He'd debated about trying to shave, but had decided he'd save that for when Sam could watch, for maximum affect. _See, Sammy? I'm fine. I'm shaving._ He'd found where Sam had put his gun-in a dresser drawer-and stashed it under his pillow where it belonged.

He'd also taken his temperature. 102.4. So he really was getting better.

Dean did not want the pancakes any more than he had when he'd asked for them, but he forced them down anyway. Every bite he watched Dean take relaxed Sam a little more. Dean set his empty plate on the crowded bedside table. Now would have been the best time to shave, but he wasn't quite sure he had ten more minutes in him yet.

"All right, what's for lunch?" Dean leaned against the headboard.

Sam's eyebrow quirked up in surprise. "Seriously?"

"Feed a fever, Sammy!"

"I guess, I can-" Sam gestured towards where he'd left the keys.

"No, it's fine. Let's watch some TV first." What Dean really needed was a nap, and he figured Sam did, too. Dean grabbed the remote and flipped through channels. Sam moved to his own bed. Dean quickly settled on a baseball game. Sam had never been able to stay awake for baseball. Sure enough, he was asleep before the inning change. So was Dean.

Sam hadn't been sleeping much lately. He'd been getting more sleep then Dean- Sam couldn't function for more than two or three days on Dean's sleep schedule- but he'd been getting significantly less than usual and most of what he had logged had been pressed up against the passenger side window. He certainly tried to sleep- he didn't take the same perverse pleasure Dean seemed to in treating his body like the temple of a god he really freaking hated-but not sleeping was just another side effect of all the ruminating he couldn't stop.

So he was as surprised as he was pissed at himself to find he'd passed out for several hours in the middle of the afternoon. _Failure of a nurse._ He looked over-at least Dean was also asleep. Good.

Dean had actually woken up twice, once to take more Advil and once to pee, but Sam wouldn't ever know that- Dean had taken great pains not to wake him. The kid clearly needed the sleep.

Dean had barely been asleep, so he heard the springs on the other bed sigh with relief when Sam stood up. Lightly didn't even begin to describe how Dean usually slept, especially if he was sober. In fact, this was just one of the truck loads of reasons Dean tried to avoid going to bed sober, ever.

Dean rolled over. Sam had his back to Dean, and was looking for something in his duffle bag.

"Morning," Dean called. Sam whirled around.

"Afternoon, actually." Sam crossed to the bed opposite Dean's and sat down. Sam look less exhausted than he had that morning, but he still had the same haunted, worried look on his face. Being cooped up in a hotel room with nothing to do was not doing Sam any favors.

Dean still felt like he'd been hit by a truck, but he'd hit his limit on recuperating and letting his brother worry.

_Time to buck up. _Sammy needed to work, so they would go back to work.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Much better." _Depending on your definition of much. And better. _

With a quirk of his eyebrow, Sam handed Dean the thermometer. _Damn it._ Dean grabbed it and stuck it in his mouth, pushed himself out of bed and heading for the bathroom where Sam couldn't see the digital read out.

"Hey, I want to—" Sam reached for Dean, but Dean batted his and away.

"I've got it." Dean growled, closing the bathroom door. The thermometer beeped. 101.5. _Excellent._ "99.2, Sammy."

"Seriously?" Sam was not a fool.

"Seriously. That is barely a fever at all. Let's check out and get back on the road. I cannot be in this room one minute longer." Dean ran his hand over his face. He needed another day or two, but he _was _getting better. He'd let Sam drive and he'd be fine by the time they got where they were going. Dean peed and took another handful of pills, before pulling open the door and taking out razor. Time to shave.

Sam was sitting on the bed, torn. He wanted to believe Dean, and he wanted to get back on the road.

"I'm not kidding," Dean called from the bathroom. "If we don't get out of here, I'm going to lose my mind."

Sam's gut twisted. _Me too._ "Okay, I'll pack." He started throwing things back into their bags. He felt better. Dean was back on his feet, they were going back to work. Hunt some things. Save some people.

Dean leaned against the door frame and watched Sam pack. He did not want to get back in the car. Sam looked up.

"You are really okay with going?," Sam asked. Sam could up with a few more dark days if Dean needed him to.

"I'm doing okay," Dean smiled reassuringly. And then—because he was tired and sick and his head was still fuzzy - "are you?" Something flickered quickly across Sam's face and Dean regretted the question.

Sam wasn't going to tell Dean what was wrong anymore than Dean was going to tell Sam he was still sick.

Dean didn't wait for Sam to lie. He crossed the room and grabbed his duffel from where it sat at Sam's feet. "Let's go." Quickly, he squeezed his brothers shoulder. _It's okay._


End file.
